


take my hand (take my whole life, too)

by dreamweavernyx



Series: the better ground (wakanda modern-day!AU) [4]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All The Cookies, College!AU, Cookies, F/M, WORKING ADULT LIFE!AU, also some cake, erik cameo!!!!, good healthy broships, high school!au, it would have been slow burn except i can't write long scenes, mj cameo!!!!, overachieving kids, so just oblivious idiots who are maybe in love, some kind of x-men cameo!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 02:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14368728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamweavernyx/pseuds/dreamweavernyx
Summary: T’Challa is pinning his campaign poster onto the board outside the music room when someone clears their throat behind him. He startles, and turns around to see an impeccably-dressed girl standing peering at him from behind pink-rimmed glasses.“Hi,” she says, not even waiting for him to remove the two pins he’s holding in his mouth. “Nakia. Guess we’re enemies?”T’Challa blinks at her for a moment, and she raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly behind him at his campaign poster. He turns to look too, noticing how it’s sagged on its side due to only having one corner pinned before the interruption.“Ah,” he says, turning back to her and nodding. “T’Challa. That’s me.”Or, T'Challa and Nakia, through the years.





	take my hand (take my whole life, too)

**Author's Note:**

> Title and theme song is "Can't Help Falling in Love", but [the Ingrid Michaelson version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sQeQC4hT10). Lovingly beta-read by the amazing irrationajasmine <3
> 
> Here at last is the t'challa/nakia fic i've have in my head for the past month. I swear finals period makes you more productive for all the wrong things - I wrote this out over three nights even though there's finals next week ~~ahahahaha university life is _great_ , folks~~
> 
> I'm so glad there are people loving this little universe of mine! It really warms my heart to read all your comments :') Please let me know what you'd like to see in this universe next!

**year, the first**

 

T’Challa is pinning his campaign poster onto the board outside the music room when someone clears their throat behind him. He startles, and turns around to see an impeccably-dressed girl standing peering at him from behind pink-rimmed glasses.

 

“Hi,” she says, not even waiting for him to remove the two pins he’s holding in his mouth. “Nakia. Guess we’re enemies?”

 

T’Challa blinks at her for a moment, and she raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly behind him at his campaign poster. He turns to look too, noticing how it’s sagged on its side due to only having one corner pinned before the interruption.

 

“Ah,” he says, turning back to her and nodding. “T’Challa. That’s me.”

 

He can see her visibly stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Yes,” she says, and T’Challa abruptly remembers the text on his poster: _VOTE T’CHALLA, HE’S A BALLER._ Of course she’d know his name.

 

“Student Council President?” she continues, and it’s only then that he realises she’s carrying a small stack of posters too. _NAKIA_ , he can make out at the top of the poster, but can’t see the rest of it.

 

“Yeah. You too?”

 

She smiles briefly, and nods. “I’m aiming to become the first female Student Council President,” she explains. “So prepare to lose.”

 

“Well, Miss Nakia,” he says, reaching over to clasp her hand and shake it. “It’s on.”

 

~

 

He _does_ lose the Presidential candidates’ debate, later that week in the auditorium. He’d only joined the race at the urging of his classmates, but Nakia’s clearly here to win – within the first two minutes of her speech she’s destroyed the few campaign promises he’d made.

 

“Sock Slide Friday would totally kill and you know it.” (A ragged cheer from the assembled audience follows.)

 

“It wouldn’t kill anything but you,” she points out, wrinkling her nose. “Have you _seen_ the state of our school’s hallway? You’d slide two inches and then hit a sticky patch of Sprite spillage from the week before.”

 

Okay, so she’s got a point. Point, counterpoint; the rest of the debate passes in pretty much the same way.

 

But voting for Student Council is done by the students, and no matter how many good points Nakia makes, at the end of the day the student body remembers T’Challa as the guy who wore a Superman shirt to last year’s end-of-school assembly under a button-up, and dramatically ripped open the button-up while his friends hooted and cheered and flapped his cape in an invisible breeze. They don’t remember Nakia, on the other hand, for the reason that she’s always busy with decathlon training and AP classes and the after-school tutoring programme.

 

(They’re a bunch of high school kids. The winner is clear.)

 

After T’Challa is announced as the new Student Council President at morning assembly, and has been presented with the ceremonial necklace (really just a Halloween leftover from Target that someone 15 Student Councils ago had bought, thinking that it would be a funny tradition), he finds himself running after Nakia as she heads to homeroom.

 

“Nakia!” he calls. “Wait up!”

 

She pauses, and turns. Somehow, he thought she’d be crying, but her eyes are clear. “T’Challa,” she says, and smiles. “Ah, no, it’s Mr President now, right? Congratulations.”

 

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly. “Uh, listen. You should’ve won, you’re way better at all this organisation stuff than me.”

 

(He remembers her campaign drives, speaking in the cafeteria about outreach programmes for struggling students and a bi-weekly food drive for needy students. He remembers his campaign drives, which mostly consisted of him giving people M&Ms and telling them to “vote for him, it’ll be _sweet_ ” and then cackling. She’s definitely better at it.)

 

“I should have expected it,” she says wryly, shrugging. “Most high schoolers think they’re kings of the world. It was good public speaking practice, though.”

 

“No,” says T’Challa. “Listen, erm. You’re really much, much better at all this shit than me. They’re letting me pick the rest of my student government. Say you’ll be my Vice-President?”

 

She blinks slowly at him. “Are- are you sure there’s nobody else you’d rather ask? You don’t even know me.”

 

“I know you’re legit,” he returns, shrugging. “I can do the big talking and you can have my back. We’ll be a great team.”

 

“…If you’re sure,” she says slowly, still looking at him as though any minute now he’ll wink and go _Syke!_ and point her to a hidden camera.

 

“I can feel it,” he assures her. “In my _belly_.”

 

She eyes his belly doubtfully, just ever so slightly rounded from one too many late-night Snickers bars.

 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

 

~

 

**year, the second**

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” T’Challa groans, slumping over the table in the Student Council club room. “I hate AP Calculus, _so much_.”

 

Nakia doesn’t even look up from the sheet of arcane-looking characters she’s perusing. “You’re the one who brought this upon yourself, doofus. Because you are an ‘ _awesome math genius_ ’.”

 

“And you,” grumbles T’Challa, “have a mind like a _steel trap_. Why are you even looking at that worksheet, anyway? Last I recall they didn’t teach Ancient Runes in this school.”

 

She snorts. “It’s Korean _hangul_ , you uneducated fool,” she says, but with no bite in her voice, only the drawling back-and-forth they’ve fallen into the habit of. “I’m learning it at an external school. A couple of the kids I tutor at the community centre are Korean, and I thought it’d be fun to learn to speak their native language. I can help them with their English and they can help me with my Korean.”

 

(Belatedly, T’Challa remembers Nakia hasn’t read Harry Potter nor seen the movies, and wouldn’t have gotten the joke. _Damn_.)

 

“ _Fun_?” T’Challa repeats incredulously. “You’re learning a new language on top of decathlon practice, debate practice, _and_ five AP courses. In _senior year_. Are you out of your mind?”

 

“Not for Ivy League,” she shrugs. “Aren’t you doing 5 APs too?”

 

“Unfortunately,” T’Challa groans. “But I’m not doing all that extra stuff that you are, and I’m _still_ dying over Calculus. Dammit, I’m a _doctor_ , not a mathematician.”

 

(The confused look he gets reminds him that she hasn’t really seen much of Star Trek, either. _Double_ damn.)

 

Nakia sighs. “Will you cheer up if I give you food?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” says T’Challa, sitting up in his seat immediately. “Since when do you cook?”

 

“Bake,” she corrects, digging a Tupperware out of her bag. “I dabbled a little during summer break and realised it’s very good for stress relief. I’m not very good yet, though.”

 

T’Challa cracks open the lid and the smell of chocolate wafts out. “Brownies,” he breathes, as though he’s looking at manna from heaven. He picks out one piece, and bites off the corner. “You can’t go wrong with chocolate,” he says, and then turns back to his homework. “Alright, I’m re-energised now!”

 

Nakia snorts. “Idiot,” she says, but her voice is fond.

 

~

 

T’Challa loses a bet and is barred from getting a date for prom. (His friends somehow thought it would be hilarious if the Student Council President, of all people, showed up dateless.) Not that he minds, because he’s not sure who he’d have asked anyway, but it does suck a little to be standing in the corner guarding his friends’ drinks while they’re dancing. ( _The DJ has terrible taste anyway_ , he tells himself, _you’re not missing much_.)

 

“Hey, partner.”

 

T’Challa whirls, nearly spilling his Coke onto his uncomfortable satiny blazer jacket, and sees Nakia. Her usually-short hair is wrapped by a braided crown today, and she’s wearing a soft dress that’s vastly different from her usual blouse-and-skirt school attire. The back of T’Challa’s neck grows hot for a second – _summer heat_ , he thinks, ignoring the fact that it’s only mid-May.

 

“Um,” he says. “Hi. Nice night.”

 

She snorts. “No date?”

 

“Lost a bet.”

 

Laughing, she raises her cup of sparkling apple juice in mock-toast. “The dateless must stick together.”

 

T’Challa laughs. “What’s your story – intimidated away all your suitors with your insane competence?”

 

She rolls her eyes and ignores him in favour of draining her cup.

 

“Eighteen, huh,” she says instead. “Isn’t it scary? It feels like yesterday we were nervous freshmen stepping into the sticky school halls for the first time.”

 

“I don’t think you’re scared,” T’Challa grins. “You’ve already planned out your next few years, Miss Early Action. Me, on the other hand, Mum’s still badgering me to join her, but I don’t think I could handle the stress.”

 

“Of being in an Ivy League or of being in your mum’s school?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” he says, flapping a hand. “My mum is _infinitely_ scarier than any fancy-pants school.”

 

Nakia smiles again, a quicksilver grin, and lifts the cup to her lips. “I’ve grown fond of your lazy genius self,” she says. “You better come back to visit, you hear?”

 

“Of course. Who else is going to eat up your bakes? Besides,” he adds, “we might end up in the same state.”

 

~

 

**year, the third**

 

The first leaves of autumn are beginning to show on the trees when T’Challa finishes packing up his room, his life, and drags the final box down to the waiting car.

 

“Box!” cheers Shuri, who’s precocious at seven but has recently decided that her new favourite thing is to jump on top of things. Including, but not limited to, the large cardboard boxes that have been lying around the house for the past week.

 

“Shuri, no,” says T’Challa, reaching out to snag the back of her collar before she can jump onto the box and potentially break the desktop monitor inside. “This box is special.”

 

His mother chuckles, coming up behind him and placing a hand on Shuri’s shoulder to calm her wriggling.

 

“All ready to fly the coop,” she says, smiling. Behind her, he can hear the sounds of his father and godfather laughing over the dregs of their morning coffee.

 

“I’m gonna miss home.”

 

“You can come home any weekend,” his mother replies. “Besides, you won’t be alone in California, right?”

 

“W’Kabi’s in UCLA,” he says, recalling his high school senior, mentor, and friend. “And Nakia’s in Cali too, but an hour’s drive away.”

 

His mother’s smile grows wider at the mention of Nakia – she’d taken a liking to “her son’s only hardworking friend” the first time Nakia had come over for a study session – and she ruffles T’Challa’s hair.

 

“You’ll be okay with her. She’s extremely responsible.”

 

“And _I’m_ not?”

 

His mother laughs. “You try your best, my son. And that’s all that matters.”

 

~

 

College freshman life is insanely different from high school life, and T’Challa feels kind of overwhelmed after the first couple of weeks. UC Berkley doesn’t exactly have the smallest campus, and T’Challa is always underestimating how much time it’ll take to run from his dorm room to that morning’s lecture.

 

His roommate, a hulking football player named M’Baku, seems equally lost, and the two of them become fast friends trying to find campus buildings together. It helps that M’Baku’s a man after T’Challa’s own heart.

 

(“Why’d you pick chemical engineering?” T’Challa’d asked on moving in day. “Lots of chemicals,” M’Baku had replied. “You can make stuff go _boom_.”)

 

Three weeks into term, he staggers into the room after a particularly tiring lecture (empty, M’Baku’s gone for evening practice), flops down on his bed, and flips open his laptop. Nakia had texted him in the morning asking if he’d like to Skype, and he quickly logs into his account now.

 

“Hey,” he says, grinning when her grainy image appears on screen. “How’s Stanford?”

 

As he’d predicted, her eyes light up. “It’s incredible,” she says. “Everyone in class is fascinating, and I’ve got the sweetest flatmate.”

 

“Aww,” says a voice off-screen, and another girl with bright white hair pops into frame. “Are you only saying that because I’m within earshot?”

 

Nakia rolls her eyes, and the other girl laughs.

 

“I’ll leave you to chat with your boyfriend,” she says. “Catch you later at the caf?”

 

Before Nakia can do more than splutter, the girl waves her fingers in the direction of the screen and slips out the door.

 

“ _Not_ my boyfriend!” Nakia yells belatedly at the closing door. T’Challa snorts.

 

“Definitely not your boyfriend,” he says, mock-seriously. “I’m not catching your cooties.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Catching my cooties would be an honour, and you know it.”

 

He’s missed this back-and-forth – M’Baku’s great but he’s not really on the same wavelength as T’Challa the way Nakia seems to be. “Who’s the flatmate? Why’d they give you an old lady?”

 

“She _dyes_ her hair, dolt,” she grins. “Name’s Ororo, she’s an environmental engineering major but she’s also planning to pick up an African studies minor. Also single, if long-distance is your thing.”

 

“It’s not. Please don’t matchmake me.”

 

“Ah, worth a shot,” she grins. “How’s Berkley?”

 

~

 

**year, the fourth**

 

The summer heat beats in through the window, and T’Challa lies on the floor of his room at home, the fan blowing straight at his face at full blast. He’s been back on summer break for a little over a month – and hadn’t _that_ been weird, having to pack up his dorm room and his life again just to move back – and while he’d originally thought lazing around doing nothing would be fun, he’s really just bored to tears.

 

M’Baku had gone back home to Texas for summer, and it’s also really weird not to have his friend’s familiar presence just in reach. Downstairs, he can hear the sounds of Shuri yelling at the TV, no doubt getting angry because _there’s no way Clover can just do that with her lasers, ubhuti_ or _how does Kim Possible fight without her hair getting in the way, it’s not fair_.

 

His phone buzzes, and he reaches for it to see a text from Nakia. _I’m dying_ , she says. _Ice cream?_

 

 _See u in 10_ , he replies instantly. Rolling over with a groan, he gropes blindly for his pants.

 

Nakia is standing impatiently outside the apartment when he comes out, sunglasses and a collegiate shirt over a dainty white skirt. Shuri, having heard the door open, comes running out to see who’s come over.

 

“Nakia!” she shrieks, and before T’Challa can so much as move there’s a human bullet colliding with Nakia’s legs and clinging to her like a persistent octopus. “Nakia!” Shuri gasps. “Did you know they cancelled Teen Titans?! It’s a tragedy!”

 

Nakia’s lips twitch, and T’Challa implores her with his eyes not to tell Shuri that Teen Titans was cancelled more than five years ago. “Hi Shuri,” she says instead, “your brother and I are going to get ice cream. Do you want to come?”

 

Shuri lights up, but then wilts back down as she remembers something. “I can’t, _umama_ said I’ve gotta finish my homework _and_ my lines by tonight. I’ve gotta write ‘I must not mock my teachers in front of the entire class’ a hundred times and it’s _the worst_.”

 

“Oh, yeah?”

 

“It’s not even like I was _wrong_ ,” Shuri’s pout deepens. “And I didn’t burn the homework in front of him! I was considering it, because that’s all it’s worth, it’s _so stupid_ that even five year olds could answer it.”

 

“Why did you even have a lighter?!”

 

Shuri shrugs. “I didn’t. That’s why I didn’t burn it.”

 

“Well then,” laughs Nakia, “go on in and write those lines, and your brother’ll buy you back some ice cream later.”

 

His sister’s face lights up, and in an instant she’s gone back into the house. “I want chocolate!” she yells from inside, before her room door slams. T’Challa snorts.

 

“I hope you know that our mother’ll be after us for ruining Shuri’s appetite for dinner.”

 

“Your sister’s precocious,” Nakia says instead of replying. “Ice cream?”

 

The ice cream store is full, but they end up sitting on a bench in the nearby park with dripping cones leaving trails of sticky-sweet sugary residue down their arms. Idly, T’Challa wonders if this is what the best of summers feels like: the faint taste of mint chip ice cream on his skin and in his mouth, a slight balmy breeze ruffling his clothes, and Nakia’s laughter next to him.

 

~

 

School begins again in a rush, T’Challa now a sophomore and living in his own tiny apartment a five-minute walk from campus, sharing a cramped toilet with M’Baku. Nakia asks for his new address once he’s told her that he’s got a semi-permanent home, but he doesn’t wonder why until a month into school, when a harried-looking postal worker shows up at his doorstep with a sizeable cardboard box.

 

M’Baku peers out from his room once T’Challa has closed the main door. “Ooh,” he says, “package from the Stanford girlfriend?”

 

“For the final time,” grunts T’Challa, struggling with the three layers of tape holding the box closed, “ _not_ my girlfriend.”

 

The box pops open, and he digs out a large Tupperware packed full of cookies, a handwritten Post-it on the top noting that they’ll expire by next week. Chocolate chip, his favourite.

 

“Want some?” he says, offering the box to M’Baku. “I can’t finish all of these by next week.”

 

“ _Gladly_.”

 

While M’Baku is sampling the cookies, T’Challa finds another small envelope in the bottom of the box, partially hidden by all the Styrofoam packing peanuts. _Baked a large batch out of habit, but forgot I can’t just walk to your house to pass you these_ , says the note inside. _They’re hardy cookies, I hope the post didn’t break them. Love, Nakia._

 

 _Oh_ , T’Challa thinks, and his heart skips a beat. Then the moment passes, and he’s grabbing the container from M’Baku before all the cookies disappear.

 

~

 

**year, the fifth**

 

_I’m not coming back for summer this year. Got a research assistant position at Stanford._

 

T’Challa gets the text two weeks before finals, and doesn’t really know why he feels a jolt of disappointment. It’s not like they can’t use Skype or anything, after all.

 

( _Look at her,_ a tiny voice in his head says, _look how she’s soaring while you’re still-_ )

 

He shuts up the voice in his head by drowning himself in prep for finals. The knowledge that Nakia won’t be around to badger while he’s bored, however, comes back to haunt him once finals are done and he’s packing up his room. He owns the apartment, now, but he’d rather not leave half his things lying around to gather dust.

 

“Get an internship,” M’Baku snorts when T’Challa casually remarks that his summer feels very empty.

 

“I don’t want to apply for jobs,” he replies, grumbling. “I just want to _create_ jobs, man.”

 

W’Kabi gives him a _look_ when he repeats his complaints. “Get a _job_ ,” he says, sitting in the kitchen of T’Challa’s house and desperately pretending like he isn’t sneaking glances at Miss Okoye just down the hall with Shuri. His mother’s favourite research assistant, protégé, and rising star at the city’s biggest law firm, is the scariest woman T’Challa has ever known, and he just _knows_ she has something to do with his sister’s constant boldness in the rightness of her own opinions and the wrongness of her teachers’.

 

T’Challa snorts. “Get your act together and _ask her out_ ,” he returns, and W’Kabi laughs at that.

 

“Joke’s on you, we’ve been dating for half a year. Get _your_ shit together and get an internship, man.”

 

“Wait- You- _What?!_ ”

 

“I guess she stopped seeing me as a kid,” W’Kabi says, shrugging. “You’d think the age difference would be weird, but we just _get_ each other, y’know?”

 

“No, not really.”

 

“Oh?” W’Kabi leans across the table with a grin. “Not sweet Nakia?”

 

“ _No_ ,” T’Challa snaps back, a little more defensive than necessary. “She’s just my friend.”

 

W’Kabi rolls his eyes, but thankfully does not further pursue this line of inquiry. “Well,” he says instead, “I’m working at this food supply company now, you could come and intern with us if you wanted to…”

 

~

 

**year, the sixth**

 

“Spring break road trip,” says M’Baku, as they’re chilling in their living space and revising for mid-terms.

 

“What,” says T’Challa, startled out of his finance-induced reverie. “M’Baku, I won’t survive more than a day in your car.”

 

“You’re weak. Jabari is the hottest ride in the city and you know it.”

 

“You drive with the windows down because your AC is broken and one of your windows is _half-shattered_ , M’Baku. Your truck is _literally_ the hottest ride.”

 

M’Baku snorts. “Okay, short drive then. San Francisco. We’ve been in this state for three years and we’ve _never been there_. It’s a tragedy. And we can stop by the Googleplex on the way back. As a bonus,” and here he pauses to wink, “Stanford is on the way to the Googleplex.”

 

“Dammit, M’Baku, we’re _not dating_.”

 

“Mhm, says the guy who keeps getting monthly care packages with _cookies_ in them.”

 

“ _She stress-bakes, dammit._ ”

 

~

 

They end up going to San Francisco, in M’Baku’s beat up pickup truck. It’s a short ride, but T’Challa’s got to admit that apart from breathing in dusty exhaust-tainted air through the window it’s a really fun trip.

 

 _Just out of curiosity_ , he texts Nakia as they head south from San Francisco. _If I were, hypothetically, to come visit, would you be free?_

 

_When?_

 

 _Uh_ , he replies. _Two hours?_

 

There is a worryingly long pause, and then: _OH MY GOD Okay I finish lecture in the next hour so I could meet you for a bit before Nightline._

 

_You give anonymous advice to sad people as a club activity? Should’ve known._

_Shut up,_ she replies, and an address. M’Baku shoots him an amused glance. “I’m thinking of staying overnight,” he says faux-casually. “I’ve got a cousin who works at Google and he’ll let me crash for a night – I’ll swing by Stanford to pick you up tomorrow.”

 

“And where am _I_ supposed to stay, genius?”

 

M’Baku smirks, a truly terrifying thing. “Well,” he says, “guess you’ll have to ask ya girl if you can sleep on her couch.”

 

“…I _hate_ you,” T’Challa mutters, but he’s already got his phone back out typing a message to Nakia. She replies quickly – her roommate Ororo is apparently out of town on family business, they’ve got a spare couch he can use, and _no of course it won’t be weird, T’Challa you overthinking weirdo_. Thank goodness for small miracles.

 

A few hours later he’s following Nakia back to her apartment, M’Baku having happily dropped him off in front of the campus before driving off. “I won’t have time for dinner because of Nightline,” she says, dropping a spare set of keys on the table, “but I’ll be back by 10 and we can get takeout for supper or something.”

 

“Sounds good,” T’Challa says, “thanks again, really.” She laughs, grins at him fleetingly like quicksilver. “My pleasure,” she replies, and then she’s gone back out the door.

 

T’Challa survives two hours of aimless scrolling through his Facebook feed before his stomach starts to protest. He’s too lazy to go out for takeout, but when he checks Nakia’s fridge she has eggs, and bread. _Hard boiled eggs on toast_ , he thinks, and fishes out two eggs. He doesn’t trust himself on the stove – his mother’s told him, with all best intentions, that he could probably burn water – so he pops the eggs into the microwave and turns it on.

 

A couple of minutes into cooking, he hears a _pop_ sound, and looks up to see the second of his two eggs exploding into eggy goop all over the inside of the microwave. (The first was already a casualty by the time he’d noticed.) “Oh,” he says, phone dropping from stunned, nerveless fingers. “ _Shit_.”

 

He’s still cleaning up bits of suicidal egg when Nakia gets back, opens the door, and asks why the house smells weird. “I tried to make hard boiled eggs,” T’Challa says mulishly. “But I only know how to use the microwave, so…”

 

Nakia stares, just for a moment, and then she starts giggling. “Okay,” she says, “let’s just get takeout. And then I can help you clean that out.”

 

~

 

**year, the seventh**

 

Graduation feels surreal. One moment he’s on the stage in an uncomfortably itchy satiny gown, holding a piece of paper and shaking hands with the dean; the next moment he’s taping the last box in his apartment and watching as M’Baku loads his own possessions into the back of his pickup truck.

 

“Aw,” M’Baku says, coming back up to the front door. “Gonna miss me? You’re frowning.”

 

“You’ve got a job in New York,” T’Challa returns, “I can literally just meet you for lunch.”

 

M’Baku shrugs one shoulder, grinning. “You gotta show me where to hang, man.”

 

“Of course.”

 

T’Challa doesn’t mention that he won’t have a lunch break like M’Baku – it hangs, unspoken, between them, the fact that he doesn’t have a job yet. _What are you going to do_ , M’Baku had asked a couple of days ago, and T’Challa had sighed: _I don’t know._

 

But then M’Baku is gone, driving off in his sputtering truck to the airport – he’s going to Texas to see his family before heading over to New York.

 

~

 

Home is a lot less relaxing than it was in his first summer of college – now, his mother is less inclined to let him laze around the house, and has been fretting non-stop about his lack of a job. Well, his mother doesn’t _fret_ , exactly, but T’Challa’s been subject to enough pointed glances to know that she’s worried about his state of employment. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but he already misses the freedom of college, where he’s old enough to drink but young enough not have to worry about adult responsibilities.

 

“ _Ikati_ ,” his mother calls from the living room. “Nakia’s here to see you.”

 

Groaning, T’Challa rolls off the bed, where he’d been wallowing in thoughts about his unemployment.

 

“Nakia,” he says, stepping into the living room to see her sitting on the edge of the sofa, worrying the edge of her skirt in her hands and looking strangely nervous.

 

“Hi,” she says. “I’ve got something to tell you. Outside?”

 

This is strange, because usually Nakia has no problem telling him things in front of his family, and _knows_ he will probably mention it to his family. But she hasn’t smiled once since coming in, so she’s probably really serious, so T’Challa capitulates. He follows her out the door, pulls it shut, and brings her up the fire escape to the roof of his apartment.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, no, everything’s great. How is the job hunting? I didn’t think you’d want me to ask you with your mum in earshot.”

 

(Well, yes, she’s got a point. T’Challa _really_ doesn’t want his mother to know that he’s been procrastinating job applications.)

 

“No success yet,” he says now, instead. “You?”

 

She looks down at her skirt again.

 

“I’m… I’ve been accepted into Harvard Law.”

 

T’Challa gapes. Blinks, then gapes again. “Congratulations,” he gets out. “Looks like it’s cross-country for us again, huh.”

 

“Yeah, about that. I’m, uh… I start at Harvard the following academic year; I asked them to let me have a gap year.” She pauses, and then, all in a rush: “I’ll be interning with the UN in Korea for a year.”

 

The back of T’Challa’s neck grows cold.

 

“It’s a position with the High Commissioner for Human Rights,” she babbles, “and they had an internship opening in their Seoul office, and I want to practice my Korean so I don’t lose my fluency, so I applied. I didn’t think I’d get it, it’s kinda insane, the acceptance email only came in yesterday-”

 

( _Look at her,_ a tiny voice in his head says, _look how she’s soaring while you’re still-_ )

 

“Of course you’d get it,” he says, though he can’t stop his voice from sounding hollow as he remembers his own half-empty CV, his own inability to find jobs that he _cares_ about. “You’re a Stanford graduate, _with honours_ , you volunteer everywhere and you do research, you’re-”

 

“Are you _upset_?” she asks, cutting him off with a slight frown.

 

“No,” he replies defensively, just a tad quickly to sound natural. Her frown deepens. “You’ll be away for a whole year doing prestigious stuff, living your best life – good for you, I guess. It’s just- everything’s changing really fast, now, and I didn’t expect this, are you sure you thought it through-”

 

 _I can’t Skype you when you’re 13 hours away_ , he does not say. _You can’t send chocolate chip cookies from Seoul. You’re my voice of reason, what am I going to do without you?_

 

“I’ve been talking about interning with the UN for _years_ , T’Challa, this isn’t some random scheme I’ve cooked up, how _dare_ you suggest that I decided on a _whim_ to move to the other side of the world for a year?”

 

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He clenches his jaw shut again.

 

“Everyone is changing,” she continues, pace not slowing but volume rising. “Maybe if you actually applied for a _job_ instead of waiting for a handout, for someone to offer you a job on a silver platter, you’d be changing too.”

 

That hits like a slap in the face, and T’Challa has to breathe deeply through his nose for a few seconds before he can reply: “So you’re going halfway across the world to do what, community service?”

 

“I’m _making a difference_ ,” she snaps. “I’m so lucky to live in this country where I can go to school and get a job, and in other parts of the world children have to _go to work_ in terrible conditions because their parents don’t earn enough, people are silenced by the government just for speaking out, and I want to be able to change that. What’s your _problem_ , T’Challa?”

 

“Maybe I just don’t want you to leave.”

 

“Well,” she returns, voice cracking. “Well. Maybe you should consider that I can make my own decisions. For myself.”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he snaps.

 

“Fine!”

 

She leaps to her feet, eyes narrowed. _Wait_ , T’Challa wants to say, _don’t go, I didn’t mean to get angry- I’m just so stressed out-_

 

But with a swish of her skirt, she’s disappeared down the stairs of the fire escape.

 

(He finds out from his mother, later, that Nakia’d flown off for Seoul the next day. It feels like the start of an eternity.)

 

~

 

T’Challa does not receive a text message asking to Skype. He buys a package of store-bought chocolate chip cookies, and eats them while stressing out over his cover letter. They’re sweeter than he’s used to, and somehow the flavour is less robust.

 

It tastes _empty_.

 

~

 

**year, the eighth**

 

“W’Kabi.”

 

There’s a groan on the other end of the line. “T’Challa? It’s 8 in the morning on Saturday, is there an emergency?”

 

“No, but listen. I just thought of a great business idea, do you want to come do it with me?”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s…” Here, he pauses for dramatic effect. “A supermarket.”

 

There is a silence on the other end which somehow manages to sound disapproving. “A supermarket,” W’Kabi repeats dryly.

 

“Yes, a supermarket,” says T’Challa. “But, picture this: it’s _online_.”

 

“…So, Amazon for food?”

 

“It’s perfect, W’Kabi! People hate going to the supermarket, so they place their orders online and we _deliver it to them_.”

 

Another pause.

 

“…Tell me more.”

 

~

 

So, setting up an online grocery delivery business is not as easy as T’Challa thought it would be. But W’Kabi’s been with his food supply company for about two years now, and he has the connections and the expertise to get the whole project off the ground. T’Challa, on the other hand, focuses on things he can actually do. (Which are basically the accounts, and nothing much else.) M’Baku, learning of their venture a month later and scolding T’Challa for not telling him earlier, volunteers to help them do deliveries.

 

Three months after T’Challa’s 8am call, Wakanda Foods is launched, providing quality groceries, organically-sourced and ethically-produced. (“It’s a good business strategy,” T’Challa told W’Kabi. “Trust me, I had to write a paper on it for school.”)

 

Business is slow, mostly by word of mouth. His mother tells her colleagues, who are all excited to have the chance to get their hands on fresh seasonal ingredients without having to lift a finger. Shuri peers at their website code on the weekends, and quietly fixes bugs T’Challa didn’t even know were there. Okoye pops into their office (really just T’Challa’s bedroom) on some Sundays, with two cups of coffee and, occasionally, the news that others at her firm are interested in the service.

 

(Nakia never calls or texts. T’Challa tries to put it out of his mind, and goes back to looking for Japanese strawberry suppliers.)

 

Everything changes with The Instagram Post. T’Challa doesn’t look into the details of customers, so it’s not until the day after when Shuri, scrolling through the app on her phone, promptly inhales her cereal milk at breakfast and spends the next two minutes hacking her lungs out.

 

“ _Ubhuti_ ,” she wheezes, and shoves the phone at him. On the screen is a fair-skinned young woman with red hair (“@scarlet_witch”, whoever that is), smiling and holding up a Wakanda Foods delivery bag. _Tried out a new grocery delivery service that’s right here in New York!_ reads the caption. _I love the quality of the food and the promptness of the delivery, 10/10 would use again. #notsponsored #justreallyexcited_

 

“Um,” says T’Challa, who doesn’t know much of how Instagram works and would much rather everyone just stick to Facebook. “I assume this is good?”

 

“ _Good_?” screeches Shuri. “Wanda Maximoff’s a _model_ , she’s got tens of thousands of followers! And she just told all of them that your website was _the shit_!”

 

“No swearing, _ilanga_ ,” says their mother mildly, and Shuri winces. “Yes, _umama_ ,” she says meekly, and then turns to T’Challa. “You should check to see if you got new sales!”

 

Just as he’s about to reach for his laptop to do so, W’Kabi rings him. “T’Challa,” he says as soon as the call connects. “I don’t know why, but we have like a hundred new orders coming in and things are going out of stock, this is _crazy_ -”

 

Needless to say, they don't have to worry about slow business anymore after that.

 

~

 

**year, the ninth**

 

W’Kabi proposes to Okoye just as winter is shifting to spring, the first flowers beginning to peek through the soil. It’s a simple ring, twisting silver branches around a shining moonstone, but Okoye glows every time she looks at it on her finger.

 

Shuri is _thrilled_ , and has taken to repeatedly asking W’Kabi if she can be the maid of honour.

 

(“Why don't you ask Okoye yourself?”

 

“Because she’s harder to persuade than you, _duh_.”)

 

The wedding takes place three months later, a simple ceremony in the garden of the new house that Okoye and W’Kabi had purchased a month prior. Shuri is the maid of honour, T’Challa is best man, and the ceremony is small and private.

 

After the vows have been said, and as the wedding cake is being cut up to serve to everyone, T’Challa catches a glimpse of sky-blue, and turns to see Nakia in a gorgeous dress, laughing at something Shuri is telling her. She looks up, catches his gaze, and freezes for a second, before she says something to Shuri and starts moving towards him.

 

“Hi,” he says stupidly when she approaches. “You’re back.”

 

She smiles wryly. “I’m almost done with my first year at Harvard, but yes.”

 

“How was Korea?”

 

“Oh, it was _wonderful_. The people were lovely, the food was great, I made a lot of friends; what’s there not to love?”

 

They’re dancing around the elephant in the room, T’Challa can feel it. “Uh,” he says, preparing to bite the bullet, “I owe you a long-overdue apology. For, um, the shit I said last year. I was stressed out and I took it out on you, and the longer I left it the weirder it felt to bring it up, especially over text.”

 

 _I missed you_ , he very nearly says, but the atmosphere’s not right for it.

 

Nakia’s shoulders sag. “I’m sorry, too,” she says quietly. “I said some things that were out of line.”

 

“Can we start over?”

 

She laughs, holds out her hand. “I’m Nakia,” she says, “nice to meet you.”

 

“T’Challa.”

 

The warm almost-summer breeze smells like mint chip ice cream on a sunny day, and it feels like a new beginning.

 

~

 

**year, the tenth**

 

He’s watching the news at Okoye’s house with Shuri, close to midnight, when he gets the text. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly grabs a scarf and his car keys.

 

“I’m going out for a bit,” he tells Okoye. “Don’t wait up, I’ll go back to my place after.”

 

“Where are you going?” asks Shuri, flopping over on the sofa to glance at him.

 

“Nakia’s just boarding her flight,” he says, “and I told her I’d pick her up at JFK instead of her having to grab a cab.”

 

“Ooooh,” says Shuri, grinning, “are you guys _dating_ now?”

 

“No,” T’Challa replies, used to this by now. “We’re friends, I just don’t want her to have to take the cab in when it’s my city."

 

“ _Riiiight_.”

 

Okoye snorts. “It’s still chilly outside,” she says, “take a coat with you.”

 

“Oh, _please_ ,” he says. “I won’t freeze.”

 

(“Did he freeze?” Shuri asks Nakia the next morning over breakfast.

 

“Yes, like a lake in winter,” Nakia says. “I had to give him my cardigan.”

 

Shuri howls with laughter.)

 

~

 

Summer draws to a close, and T’Challa finds himself perched on the same park bench, eating ice cream with Nakia. She’s brought out a container of cookies, too, and they’re snacking with great relish.

 

“One more year of law school left, huh.”

 

“Yep,” she says, taking a lick of her strawberry ice cream. “Then I’m done with school for good.”

 

“Where are you going, after? I heard Okoye invited you to join her law firm.”

 

“Dora Milaje? Yeah, she did,” replies Nakia. “But I think I’m going to go back to the UN to work. I’m going to be the next Amal Alamuddin.”

 

“Don’t you mean, Amal Clooney? George Clooney’s wife?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Nakia says, affronted. “Amal Alamuddin, the _insanely_ talented human rights lawyer who just so happens to be married to a famous actor.”

 

“Right.” He pauses, then: “Wait, does that mean you’ll be going back to Korea?”

 

She whips around to study him with narrowed eyes. “Does it matter?”

 

“No,” he says, “it doesn’t, and it shouldn’t.” (He knows that now.) “Just- I’ll miss you, I guess.”

 

Her eyes soften slightly. “It’s not Korea,” she says. “I got an offer from the New York office, so I won’t be going anywhere.”

 

“Oh.” To cover the awkwardness, he grabs another cookie. “That’s good. You should, uh. Bake more, now that you’re back.”

 

She laughs, now, and swats his shoulder. “I _knew_ you only hung out with me for my bakes.”

 

“Of course,” he says cheerily. “Bake some muffins. Branch out.”

 

“You know what,” she says, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I will.”

 

~

 

**year, the eleventh**

 

They’re meeting during her lunch break one day in September when he tells her about the café. “So you know there’s a new café near the park, right? It’s called the Better Ground.”

 

“Mhm,” Nakia says, picking up another mouthful of salad. “Shuri was telling me about it. Apparently the barista’s really cranky?”

 

“Erik? Yeah, he definitely is. He says he doesn’t sell food, and I was wondering – since you always bake big batches anyway, instead of feeding them all to me, why don’t you sell them?”

 

She blinks at him. “You’d pay for my baking?”

 

“Of _course_ I would,” he says. “More than worth it.”

 

“Hmm,” she replies. “I’ll think about it.”

 

~

 

Erik has threatened him on multiple occasions to resort to drastic action to get him to ask Nakia out. T’Challa doesn’t want to explain that their friendship is _complicated_ (partially because he doesn’t even know, himself, how to describe it), so he just nods and hopes that Erik doesn’t carry out his plan soon.

 

The Better Ground has been closed for a Christmas party this year, and T’Challa is helping Shuri put the final touches on the tree in the corner. Kiki, the murder cat that Erik picked up from… somewhere… is batting at the tinsel on the lowest branches of the tree, while W’Kabi’s dog Rhino sleeps nearby.

 

The door opens, and Nakia’s there with a large cake box in her hands. “Oh!” says Shuri, getting up. “ _Ubhuti_ , you should help Nakia with her cake, it looks heavy! The table for the cake is over there in the corner.”

 

T’Challa rolls his eyes, but acquiesces; it’s not like there’s much left to put on the tree, either. MJ, Shuri’s girlfriend (it’s still odd for T’Challa to think of his baby sister as _having a relationship_ ), settles down to take his place and starts detangling the fairy lights.

 

“What cake is it today?” he asks, plucking the cake box from Nakia’s hands and walking with her to the table in the corner.

 

“Chocolate,” she says, “but with gingerbread cookie decorations.”

 

“Sounds _delicious_.”

 

They reach the table, and Nakia takes a cake stand out from her bag. Carefully, the two of them maneuver the cake out of the box and onto the stand, before Nakia pulls out a delicate gingerbread house from a smaller container and places it atop the cake.

 

“Wait,” Shuri calls just as T’Challa’s about to step back. “Look up!”

 

He looks up, and- oh. There’s a small sprig of shiny leaves and white berries dangling from the lights, right in front of the cake table.

 

“Mistletoe,” he deadpans, and Shuri whoops, breaking out into an enthusiastic rendition of _Kiss the Girl_.

 

“No,” he says, then louder and sharper: “ _Shuri_. Stop interfering.”

 

She shuts up at once, surprised, and he narrows his eyes at her. Beside him, Nakia shifts awkwardly, and at once his attention shifts. “Nakia,” he says quietly, “back door?”

 

“…Sure,” she says, and follows him out. It’s cold outside, and their breath comes in little puffs.

 

“Why’d you snap at Shuri?” she asks, once they are both outside and the door has been closed to guard against eavesdroppers. “Is the idea of kissing me that bad? You’d only have to do it on the cheek.”

 

T’Challa is thrown slightly off tangent by this, and his traitorous brain suddenly imagines what it might be like to kiss Nakia.

 

“No,” he says, hoping his thoughts aren’t playing out on his face. “It’s not that. It’s… Well, I don’t even know what I feel right now, really. But I know that I missed you a lot when you were at school and even more so in Korea. I know that I can’t ever eat a chocolate cookie from the store again because they all taste empty when they’re not made by you. I don’t know what kind of label to put on it, but I… well-”

 

Nakia’s laughter cuts him off, and when he looks at her her eyes are sparkling. “You dummy,” she says. “I don’t know what I feel, either. We’ve had more than 10 years but we’ve figured nothing out. But I know that I’d like to go and grab a coffee with you sometime, I think.”

 

“We grab coffee _all the time_. Our good friend runs a coffee shop.”

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

“No, like a _date_ kind of coffee.”

 

“Oh.” He pauses. “And ice cream after?”

 

Nakia smiles. “And ice cream after,” she agrees.

 

 

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> xhosa translations:  
> ubhuti = older brother  
> umama = mum/mother  
> ikati = cat (t'challa's family nickname)  
> ilanga = star (lit. "fixed star", which is the star in the centre of a solar system; shuri's family nickname)
> 
> In case the flow of time's a little confusing, the story starts in 2007. Each "year" goes according to the calendar, but because the academic year starts in the fall, one academic year will straddle 2 calendar years.
> 
> The full complicated family situation has been laid out in the end-notes of _turn a little faster_ , but for reference purposes here is a quick guide:  
> \- There's a 12-year difference between Shuri and T'Challa  
> \- T'Challa and Nakia are the same age, and W'Kabi's 2 years older than them  
> \- There's a 14-year difference between W'Kabi and Okoye
> 
> I researched myself into a hole trying to figure out what college everyone was going to, and realised that I hadn't specified which college Shuri/MJ study at (and consequently where Ramonda is employed as dean). Quick cheatsheet:  
> \- Nakia and Ororo are at Stanford; Nakia majors in [international relations](https://politicalscience.stanford.edu/undergraduate-major/major), and Ororo does [environmental engineering](https://majors.stanford.edu/environmental-systems-engineering/ees).  
> \- Nakia's post-grad law degree is [at Harvard Law](https://hls.harvard.edu/dept/academics/degree-programs/j-d-program/) (just like elle woods, ahaha).  
> \- T'Challa and M'Baku are at UC Berkley; T'Challa studies [business](http://haas.berkeley.edu/Undergrad/) and M'Baku [chemical engineering](http://guide.berkeley.edu/undergraduate/degree-programs/chemical-engineering-nuclear-joint-major/).  
> \- For the non-US peeps, "early action" is one way in which someone can apply for university admission through the Common App platform; you indicate a choice of one school that you're confident of getting into, and then they give you an offer earlier than the rest of your peers.  
> \- Not mentioned in the fic, but Shuri/MJ are in Columbia, with Ramonda. The whole gang stays in NYC!
> 
> Nakia's UN internship does not exist - you _can_ intern with the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) but internship availability depends on each national office. I chose Korea because I wanted to tie it back to the film where Nakia speaks fluent Korean (which was _really_ awesome to watch, in contrast to all those films where the white man speaks a horribly-butchered version of the asian language and everyone is SHOOK (looking at you, mark ruffalo speaking chinese in _now you see me 2_ )). The general UN internship policy [is here](https://careers.un.org/lbw/home.aspx?viewtype=IP); and this is the [actual job opening in the Seoul office of the OHCHR](https://careers.un.org/lbw/jobdetail.aspx?id=95689) that I based Nakia's internship off of.
> 
> Nakia's braids for prom [look something like this](http://www.sophisticatedallure.com/hairtyles-lupita-nyongo-braided-updo/); her dress at the wedding [looks like this](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/02/lupita-nyongo-oscar-dress-2014_n_4869361.html).
> 
> Amal Alamuddin, aka Amal Clooney, is a famous human rights lawyer who has spoken to the UN, the Permanent Court of Arbitration, and the European Court of Human Rights. Basically, she's an amazingly talented lawyer. Oh, and she's married to George Clooney. If you have under 10 minutes to spare, [here are her spoken submissions before the European Court of Human Rights](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_qw8UTPGYI); she's a wonderfully smooth oralist and I _love her so much_.
> 
> If you're concerned about the state of Nakia's care packages, please rest assured that it is [definitely possible to mail cookies](https://www.wikihow.com/Mail-Cookies). However, please for the love of all that is sacred **do not try putting eggs in the microwave, ever**. [They will explode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ6VmjMg_GA) and may scald you!!!


End file.
